A clear, strong voice in adoptee rights advocacy
Blake Gibbins
In only a year, Blake Gibbins’ YouTube channel “Not Your Orphan” has garnered an enthusiast base of subscribers who tune in for the host’s thoughtful, engaging, and provocative videos about a range of adoption issues from adoptee infantilization to genetic sexual attraction. Gibbins, a queer domestic adoptee and adoptee rights advocate, lives in Colorado and is deep into a self-designed graduate program in child welfare history and contemporary adoptee rights from Vermont’s Goddard College.
“Not Your Orphan,” Gibbins explains, is for “adoptees and allies and all who wish to understand.” And unlike so many conversations about adoption in which adoptee voices are nowhere to be found, “Not Your Orphan” is a place, they say, “where we talk everything adoption from the perspective of those who actually live it.”
Whether focused on how to be a better ally, cognitive dissonance and its place in the discourse on adoption, the gross inequities in the adoption system, or the trauma of family separation, the videos are informative, illuminating, and even—despite the seriousness of the subject matter—amusing. With an easy conversational style and a guileless gaze that connects with the viewer, Gibbins add a surprising intimacy and even the illusion of interactivity to these videos. This disarming presence, combined with deft editing and creative effects, glides viewers through what Gibbins acknowledges are sometimes uncomfortable conversations.
As host, Gibbins is both entertainer and the best kind of teacher, sharing deep knowledge of the history, workings, and abuses of the foster and adoption industry along with welcome dashes of humor and irony and a heap of social justice perspective. These videos, however, are informed not only by historical perspective but, and equally important, also by lived experience. They’re clear and direct, and variously raw, vulnerable, angry, whimsical, and passionate.
When not studying, advocating, or working for the local school district, Gibbins says, “I enjoy such activities as breathing, sleeping, and sometimes eating food.” Despite the crushing schedule, they took time to talk with Severance about a range of issues pertinent to adoptees because, they say, “I love being able to connect with other thought leaders and game-changers in the adoptee community, but also anyone having experienced child separation.” Here, they tell us about their path as an advocate and share their views on the importance of adoptee voices and the forces that tend to silence those voices.
Can you say a little bit about the background of your adoption experience?
Gosh, no problem! Let’s see…I was a pre-arranged adoption from Houston, Texas, meaning my adoptive parents met my first mother some months before I was born and agreed to an adoption at birth. Growing up we didn’t really talk about it. I found out when I was about 6. Mom says I went really quiet and then asked if everyone I loved was going to die. I knew I was having struggles from separation trauma way before that though. Like, I can remember nightmares from age 3 about people kidnapping me, plus the social anxiety, obsessive perfectionism, depression, incessant crying, ya know. But I think having the verifying information started to connect more dots for me. I was also lucky enough to have found my papers when I was 8 or so; that gave me two names I could carry with me. But yeah, we didn’t discuss it. When I was 16 my first mother sent me a manila envelope with two letters and some photos (the first photos I’d ever seen of someone genetically related to me). I also found out that I had an older half-sibling who was two when I was born. No one had ever told me that before. I was elated at the time, but later that part really hurt me. And the way my adoptive mother reacted to the letter—oof. I swore to never talk about it again with her. But that’s changed in adulthood, now that I study what I study. Ha, I don’t really give her the option not to talk about it. I guess I’m “reclaiming my time,” so to speak. As far as reunion, I haven’t met my first mother’s family. And my first father and I didn’t really hit it off when we met. But anyone who goes to my channel can find out why.
Would you briefly summarize the impetus for creating “Not Your Orphan”?
It’s really because of my own “coming out of the fog” experience [see more below about the meaning of coming out of the fog] and just not wanting to be silent about what I was learning. When I was finishing my undergraduate degree in peace studies at Naropa University, I attended a symposium on trauma by Dr. Gabor Maté. I was there to better understand the PTSD of the veterans I was working for. But I ended up learning far more about myself that day than anything and even became the focus of the event’s conversation at one point. Before that day, I hadn’t ever thought of adoption as trauma (though I had a crap-ton of symptoms of trauma), but I certainly left that event with some huge questions. So when we were having to come up with topics for our undergrad theses, that was what I chose—adoption. I wanted to know why I cried so much during that event and why I’d never considered my own pain as worthy of being connected to that piece of my story before. When I started doing research about adoption and child welfare history, that’s really when light bulbs started to go off. Why the heck had nobody heard of any of these shady figures or corrupt events in history? Why is nobody talking about the trauma or the ties to eugenics? I carried that line of study into my graduate work and in my first semester started the channel as a companion to what I was learning. I didn’t want to hold in all that information. I felt like the world should know. Although it’s safe to say being in grad school meant I wasn’t making enough videos to keep up with all I was learning. That’s changing now that I’m entering my final semester.
In your first episode of “Not Your Orphan” you quote Nigerian author Chinua Achebe, who says, “Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” That one line so concisely yet completely encapsulates what strikes me as one of the greatest challenges for adoptees and adoptee advocates. So let’s talk about the tension between wanting to control the narrative and the forces that perpetuate silence while maintaining that dominant narrative.
Yeah…I’m not sure if it’s really about controlling the narrative so much as trying to bring justice to it. What would truly be just, in my opinion, and I think in the opinion of many others, would be to center the most impacted. You wouldn’t, for example, ask the cis-gendered boss of a trans person to speak as an expert on the trans experience in America. But the hardest question with centering adoptees is, “How do we get people to care about our perspective?” Because many really don’t understand that there’s anything worth discussing. Sometimes, just to make a bold point about bodily violation, consent, and toxic conditioning, I draw comparisons between infant adoption and assault, or kidnapping. But that’s never gone over well with others. Oh gosh, I’m remembering now…so I’m actually a survivor of a very complicated sexual assault experience (that’s not what I’m remembering), and am also an adoptee. My memory is over being so upset when I was workshopping with this group of speakers on my five-minute script about adoption—to be presented in front of 900 people at a storyteller event—and this leader stopped me when I made a statement about how, as a survivor of sexual assault, I think it’s important to believe survivors first and so was asking that we believe adoptees when they say adoption has harmed them, instead of leading with scrutiny. This person was gobsmacked that I’d drawn any kind of comparison, ignored that I mentioned I’d been a survivor, and asked that if I wasn’t going to elaborate further I probably shouldn’t include anything about assault because “it can be a very triggering subject for some.” I just stared. People hear what they want to hear. They consider trauma, assault, and violation of rights to be what they’ve been taught it is. It doesn’t matter how many facts you’re bringing to someone, they just aren’t as powerful as beliefs.
Can you explain what it means to be in the fog and how being in the fog may both stifle adoptees’ understanding of themselves and keep them from speaking out?
Sure. I mean, to piggyback on your previous question, sometimes the narrative doesn’t progress because there are also adoptees who support our child welfare and fertility industries and actually help in the silencing of dissenters. But I’m hesitant to call them “in the fog” because I think there can be this risk of elitism inherent to all that. I think there’s just coming out, and you are where you are, and you find what you find, or you stay put. That said, I’m not cool with the shaming by those who choose to support the system toward those who don’t. Anyway, “coming out of the fog” has become a part of the phraseology of the adoptee rights community. And I actually think it’s a great description of what happens. The way I describe it is as “an organic and non-linear process by which an adult adoptee begins to unlearn and deconstruct the mythologies taught to them about adoption by the adoptive family and mainstream society at large. It is a process of personal reclamation and authority of one’s own story.” That process can be catalyzed by any manner of things, at any age, or not at all. And that makes it really difficult when we say “listen to adoptees.” To every marginalized community there is nuance, and not one voice will speak for all. But consistently I hear others say, and agree from personal experience, that there are adoptees who defend adoption in ways that many of us used to before whatever happened that catalyzed our own “awakening” process. But because these institutions favor supportive voices, any objectors are often scrapped, and even abused. And there might be adoptees who protect adoption till their dying day, and I support their right to their own stories. But this is why so much of my work tries to get people out of their heads about who had a “good” or “bad” experience and instead focuses on justice, truth, and history. Because adoptees can evolve and change in regard to how they relate to their own adoption and to the industry as a whole, but some facts don’tchange, like that these institutions didn’t begin with pure intent, are not creating pathways to prevention, and that separation of a young human from their genetic mother hurts them.
In a conversation with Reshma McClintock on 365 Live, you observed that adoptees often feel a need to be emotional caregivers to their adoptive parents. Similarly, many, out of fear of hurting their parents’ feelings, wait until after their adoptive parents have died to begin to talk about their experiences or to express interest in learning about their biological parents. Can you say more about how adoptees’ feelings tend to be subservient to those of their adoptive parents and how it may keep them from feeling comfortable in sharing their truths?
I’m not shy about comparing young adoptee psyches with symptoms of Stockholm syndrome. You have to love thy captor to survive and adapt. Like I can remember having very early dreams that my [adoptive] mother was trying to kill me or possess me, and they just slowly faded because I began to see her as not a threat as I got older. For those adopted as older children, their position regarding consent and receptivity toward the process becomes trickier. I’d say it still has Stockholm-like qualities, because you need to make yourself believe that you’re going to have some permanency with these people, some security. And because removal often comes with this sense that you’ve been wronged or abandoned for something that you did, or just for existing, then you really try your hardest to keep favor with those who take you in. That or you fight like heck to resist them; there have been many young children out of home, or in this or that placement, who have been diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder. We’re already navigating so many things just to attach and feel secure as young survivors of separation, and so to even fathom also bringing up the trauma of separation itself with our caregivers—while we’re actively trying to attach—would be frightening. It risks the whole operation. Because you don’t want the people who took you in to feel like the monsters in the room, because it feels like, “Well then what cause do we have to keep you [safe] if you’re just going to be ungrateful?” And so when you’ve been conditioned this way as a young person, it’s just a pattern that can stay with you: protect the parents/don’t talk about adoption = don’t risk being abandoned again. The power structure of adoption, too, just inherently makes adoptive parents out to be the biggest voice with the most power and praise. In one of my “Medium” articles I added how one Texas Democratic congressman recently encouraged that anyone adopting an older child in foster care deserves a holiday and saintly status.
What can be done to help adoptees shift the caregiving to themselves and develop greater comfort in speaking out when their silence serves to protect their adoptive parents?
Umm…that’s a hard one. I think what helped me the most was finding other adoptees who felt similarly—reading their voices or watching their talks. But there can also be a lot of anger and high intensity in our advocacy community, and while it does encourage validation, I don’t know that there’s a clear handbook on the care of self while in the work. I think radical honesty and self-reflection has helped me a lot. Like, I try to name aloud my trauma patterns and triggers when they’re happening so I can recognize them and not let my system go haywire. Like I might humorously say to my roommate, “I feel like if I don’t do X, or because I did X, you’ll abandon me or kick me out.” And therapy, oh my gosh therapy—if your insurance or state helps you have access to it. And if your therapist isn’t safe or healthy when discussing this, then shop around. I’m not trying to convert anyone either, but for traumatized bodies, it’s super important that you’re really careful about what you put in them (especially substances that affect control and because the damaged chemical reward system can be really hungry for quick fixes), also that you get active, however is possible for you, and get intimate with nature as often as you can to help reset the nervous system.
In one of the episodes of “Not Your Orphan” you talk about adoptee infantilization and the ways in which adoptees are so often silenced when they challenge the dominant narrative of adoption. Anyone who has followed the adoption community on Twitter or Instagram will see that many adoptees are tired of, and angry about, others speaking for them or around them, yet are also unwilling, unable, afraid, or otherwise reluctant to speak out. Can you talk about the various places this reluctance comes from? What situations, circumstances, and experiences contribute to silencing adoptees’ voices and privileging those who benefit from adoption?
Hmm…I might recommend people read my article “Becoming Ungrateful” on “Medium.” I go into how dangerous single stories can be when it comes to systems or institutions of oppression. It’s a lot to go into here. One of the biggest sources of silencing adoptee voices I also talk about in the infantilization video—the intersection of trauma and privilege in an individual’s life. Many Irish (and others) did this in the 19th century after coming to this country. First, they were maliciously, violently harmed in their own countries and then here in the U.S. After a while though, whiteness was offered as a protection, and so as long as they too became offenders of violence toward newcomers, there was a relief from trauma. Some of the greatest adversaries, I think, of dissenters in this conversation tend to be those who’ve struggled with infertility, white and affluent lesbians and gays, and the evangelical Christian community, because each of these communities has been promised something to alleviate their own suffering by possession of a child in separation. Like, I’ve been called worse things by my fellow queer community about critiquing child separation than I have by just the average non-adopted person. And that hurts. Because I’ve always struggled to feel belonging in a community that’s being led to believe that access to a child is an equal right. We’re being promised that relief, resources, happiness, and security will come from the nuclear family model, and it’s just not true. Ha, all of my future dates are going to have to end with, “No I don’t want a child, and here’s why.” And then it’s like, good luck seeing that person again. It gets exhausting.
Do you believe some adoptees shut down due to what appears to be a sense of fatigue and hopeless or out of self-protection—perhaps a fear of being retraumatized?
Oh, I think it’s so many things working together. Adoption is a trauma-identity, and so what binds us isn’t a culture, or sexual preference, or a faith system—it’s trauma. That can be really exhausting to continue to engage all of the time. Believe me, making a degree out of it is no party. And I think all the reasons you listed do happen and are valid.
What has to happen to make it possible—at a personal, individual level—for people to feel comfortable telling their stories, sharing their lived experience?
I think you have to feel safe that you won’t crumble into a pile of dust. And that you won’t lose everyone you ever cared about. I actually don’t know why the queer community isn’t a better ally toward dissenting adoptees. Because it’s a similar fear when you’re coming out of the closet that you could lose your loved ones (except there’s often been a developmental privilege). But there are a couple differences in that comparison. Like, the way the queer community is right now, visibility is more accepted in society as a whole (though not in every singular place), and there are national and local organizations that help people with their identity and access to resources. And unlike coming out, where you’re saying to your loved ones, “This is who I am,” with opening up about the pain and struggles of separation there’s an unspoken inflection of “You hurt me.” And that can be more difficult to talk about. Especially when one is trying to safeguard the caregiver. I hope we [the adults] continue to make spaces where adoptees can come and just experience others owning their truth, justice, and resilience.
And on a larger societal level—you’ve said that adoptees are the least likely to be given a seat at the table when adoption is discussed. In one of your articles you wrote, “I will not degrade myself by trying to get a seat at tables that weren’t built for us.” What can adoptees, advocates, and allies do to have their own tables—to challenge the dominant narrative? How can their voices become equal to or, better still, louder than the voices promoting adoption?
I’m still trying this out. I really don’t have a solid answer yet, and I’m not sure we ever will. Movements are so organic, really. You just accumulate more and more voices agitating more and more of the toxic singular story, and suddenly people start paying attention. But we won’t be made privy as to when that day of critical mass will be. In regard to the quote, I do think it helps if we make sure we are building adoptee-centric community spaces first.
How important is connecting via social media and the adoptee community? How can it help adoptees find and share their voices? What does the online community offer?
Anonymity is the biggest thing, I think. That offer of anonymity with platforms like Dear Adoption, or with many influencers who take commentary that others have privately asked them to offer, and do so by posting with the tag “anonymous,” is so important. Because if you’re terrified to speak your truth publicly, then you need that safety and protection. Also there are just not a lot of physical, in-person spaces one can visit and hang out, read books, access resources, or form groups and meetings with other adoptees which also afford privacy from the gaze of their families. The online community has been a lifesaver. Plus with that piece about how getting together to advocate with a trauma community can be tiring, it’s important that people have the option to tune in and tune out as much as they need from the privacy and safety of their homes. That’s just a mental wellness thing. But I do hope for more in-person spaces focused on healing and justice. All of that being said, online does also come with trolls and pretty harsh pushback sometimes. So take care of you first. Don’t give it all to the cause.
Can you explain what you meant when you wrote “I have never truly belonged to myself until now,” and what relationship that sense of belonging has, if any, to speaking out about adoption and acknowledging trauma?
Well, when early separation has occurred, there’s no consent from the newborn, infant, or young child in that trauma. And they most certainly have no clue what the heck is going on, or that it means they’ll never see (or maybe even know) their caregiver again. So the more I speak my own truth, the more I’m gathering all these stolen parts of me back and becoming a sovereign body once again. Then I get to play gatekeeper, get to say, “No you may not [cross this or that boundary].” Adoption taught my limbic brain that I was nothing more than a commodity to be given away. So I became really good at giving all of me away. But yeah, not anymore. Reclaiming your story is rough, but so worth it in the end; for those moments you get to say “no” and nobody is going to violate that no. I mean, that last sentence alone is why I’m not ashamed about drawing connections between adoption and assault. I would wish the same freedom felt in the moment of a respected “no” to any survivor.
You’ve made it clear that you’re not a “collective voice” for all adoptees. Why is it important that no one claim that role and that individual voices make up the conversation?
That’s an easy one. There are not only so many kinds of adoptees, but also many kinds of adoptions. It’s definitely not a monolith, and so nuance and context (in juxtaposition with consistent fact) will always be required. I watch myself struggle with it sometimes on my channel. Like I might say “adoptees…X,” or something universal, and I try not to. That’s why I’ll add words like several, or many, or even clarify with infant, or newborn. Part of why I’m fundraising right now for the channel is so that I can go and meet those whose voices and experiences can fill those gaps I can’t speak to. But even with the most well-constructed article or video, you still get people who say, “I’m sorry you had a bad experience, but I didn’t. Don’t speak for me.” And you just want to shake them and say, “Did you listen to any of what I just said?” Haha, because I do really try and press the issue that there are different situations. But, like I said, there’s also biological or historical fact, and this isn’t about who had a good or bad experience. It’s about justice.
What do you mean by the “single story of adoption” and what encouragement or advice would you offer to adoptees to help them liberate their own stories from that single story?
I would say that the framework developed at Barnard College by Dr. Lee Anne Bell around storytelling for social justice really helped me think about stories of oppression as multiple stories, and then to begin hunting for what those “other” stories were. People can Google and read more about The Storytelling Project, which they use exclusively to talk about racism, but I think it helps to use that breaking down of story structure with any movement or issue. As far as liberating oneself? I mean if your life experience does not feel like “adoption is beautiful and painless or faultless,” then you’re already living the work. It’s just about beginning to talk about it.
What’s your goal when you complete your master’s program? How do you want to use this education?
Oh no…I feel too seen, haha! It’s a great question, and one I try not to be scared about. The truth is, I really don’t know. There have been times where I sort of depressingly stare into space and ask, “Is social work really the only path for someone who made an entire degree out of studying child welfare history and child rights issues?” I can’t bring myself to ever even consider working within the agencies and institutions that exist in order to slowly reform them. I don’t have the patience. And I can’t place a child; I won’t do it. I’d probably be awake and haunted for days. My best friend wants me to get a PhD so I can work in higher education, and for the credibility, but I’m not sure. Truth is, I wish there was some wonderful position that someone would seek me out for. Someone who sees me as a passionate, creative teacher and advocate who wants to spark national conversations about reforming child welfare through storytelling, journalism, and research. And then they hire me because they love what I do and believe I’ll be a great contribution. Sadly, there just aren’t a lot of jobs out there for “those who want to build a future to end adoption, foster care, and big fertility.” But I hold hope that I’ll either be sought by “the right fit” that I just didn’t know existed or that I can be funded to do more of what I do. If not, there’s always working at a bookstore by day and acting as rogue adoption educator by night while I work on my novel—so long as I can pay my loans.
What are the best resources you can recommend for readers wishing to learn more about the history of adoption?
I love this question. So, when I was in my undergraduate degree program, one of the most important books I read was Barbara Bisantz Raymond’s “The Baby Thief.” I had already been gathering a lot of information about these different parts of history and making my own connection, and then I found her book and it was like the perfect 101 synthesis of everything I’d begun studying for my thesis. It’s primarily about the life and work of Georgia Tann, but touches on a lot of other historical points that interlace with our current system of child welfare. Let’s see. The documentary “The Eugenics Crusade,” the books “War Against the Weak: Eugenics and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race,” and “White Trash” are all really important foundational reads for how eugenics philosophies set up what would become western child welfare as we know it. For those who can stomach old fashioned writing (I struggle), it’s worth looking into written works by Charles Loring Brace, the founder of the Orphan Train Movement. To a critical reader, he’s not shy about exposing his own beliefs toward immigrants in support of why he wanted to remove their children. Understanding poverty law in 19th-century America in general really gives you a framework for the case of adoption today. “Abandoned: Foundlings in Nineteenth-Century New York City” was also a well-researched piece with a lot more detailed information on the development of welfare at the time. Great for anyone who needs a clear, step by step unfolding with bits of storyline to back up research. I would also say “Dawnland” or “Blood Memory,” which speak well about the Native scoop era and those ramifications. There’s just a ton. And once you start, more resources always open up.
What other resources can you share—your favorite websites, organizations, or Twitter/Instagram accounts—that adoptees and allies might want to follow?
That’s actually so difficult to answer, haha! There are so many excellent resources, and they all serve different functions. I’d feel badly for leaving anyone out! There are podcasts like AdopteesOn, multi-perspective platforms like Dear Adoption, and resources from orgs like Family Preservation 365, InterCountry Adoptee Voices, Adoptees Connect, and Saving our Sisters. People who want to stay up to date with more domestic OBC (original birth certificate) legislation can follow Adoptees United (which then connects to many other domestic orgs working on the legal front). And I would highly encourage people to stay abreast of the work Adoptees for Justice is doing with the Adoptee Citizenship Act of 2019. There are way too many adoptees facing deportation in the US, and way too many who have been [deported] already—by that I mean that any is too many. There are also a ton of social influencers, and that number is growing. Ha, I don’t want to stop and list them all or this will be so long. Oh, and I presented at KAAN (Korean Adoptee and Adoptive Families Network) this year and was really pleased with the way they run their conference—lots of engaging dialogue and emphasis on centering adoptee voices.
What forms of self-care or professional care if any do you recommend for individuals experiencing trauma or other mental health impacts of family separation?
I think I answered a lot of this in a previous question, so maybe I’ll just end with a “words of wisdom” sort of thing if that’s okay. I would want those reading to know that if separation is a part of your early life story, then you’ve earned your suffering. You don’t need to work hard to prove it to anyone who doesn’t understand. We believe you. I believe you. There is an international community of us who believe you and will not judge your story when you choose to talk about it. Trauma is a bitch, but also an amazing educator if you let it be. So, write it out of you; talk it out of you; whirl, spin, and kick it out of you. But let it move. Don’t hold it in. That’s not good for you, or for anyone, in the end. What I’ve come to learn is that I had no idea how impactful sharing my own story could be toward giving someone else permission to share theirs. We all tend to wait for permission from time to time. So I gift that to you and hope that when you’re ready you’ll come find us. Because we are a growing movement. You are not alone.
Look for Gibbins and “Not Your Orphan” on Facebook, on Twitter@notyourorphan, on Instagram and, of course, on YouTube. And learn more about their fundraiser to support their videos and broaden their advocacy work and find out how you can help.
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